


Splosh

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 16:16:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3735391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil and Bard fall over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Splosh

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Thranduil stumbles somehow into the freezing river and in his panic drags Bard in with him [...]” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25502978#t25502978).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After a considerable amount of magic, herbs, and rest, Thranduil’s loyal steed is back on her feet. He still doesn’t ride the grand creature to Dale until he’s sure she’s able, and when the conference is over and there’s no longer a timetable to meet, he walks beside her on foot. The noble elk keeps her muzzle held high, as though determined to walk as faithfully as her master needs her to, but Thranduil has a deep connection with the souls of his realm and can feel through his fingers that she’s tired. He pets her absently with one hand as his procession strolls back along the riverbank, the other elves on foot to mirror their king. He will have no other steed while this one survives, although the new king of Dale offered several replacements. 

Having refused such offers, Thranduil isn’t particularly surprised to have Bard on foot at his side. Where Thranduil goes, others often follow. Bard has agreed to walk him to the edge of the Long Lake, as he so often does, so they may talk more of unofficial matters, away from the stifling air of the conference room. Not for the first time, Thranduil suggests, “You should see the halls of my people. Perhaps it would give you inspiration for the designs of your rebuilding.”

Grinning handsomely, Bard shakes his head and replies, “You forget that time is of the essence to us mere mortals. We’re still new to Dale, and I can’t leave it before it’s secured.”

Thranduil teases, “Evidently, you can.” A single eyebrow lifts with his smirk; he never could resist poking fun at attractive companions. Bard has proven surprisingly acceptable in more ways than one, and he grins wider at Thranduil’s point. 

He opens his mouth, but whatever rebuttal he was going to make never leaves his lips. Thranduil’s elk takes a sudden tumble, her leg giving out, and her enormous body topples right onto Thranduil. Only his honed battle instincts alert him in time to lunge out of the way, avoiding being trapped beneath her massive weight, but the movement causes him to lose his footing along the rocky ground. Arms jutting out for balance as he’s thrown over, he reaches a hand for the only thing close enough to grab onto—Bard.

Bard, trying to evade the same falling elk, only falls with him, and the two of them go stumbling backwards, right over the edge of the bank, boots sliding down the mud to slam them into the water. That first splash is a shock, like a sheet of ice shattering around their bodies, and suddenly Thranduil’s swallowed up by freezing water. His hair instantly clouds his face, the weight of his armour and Bard’s body dragging him deeper. The frigid current tries to sweep him away, but Thranduil is a warrior and snaps to action. He waves out his arm and gets his feet under him, kicking up, tossing his head above the water. His hair splatters up, slapping over his face, and he nearly sinks again in surprise. Frantic elves are rushing to the bank, but he waves them away short of getting in. He’s a king and he can handle himself. As soon as he’s steady in the water, he checks his crown—askew, but still on his head. 

Beside him, Bard is spluttering and splashing about, but alive and breathing air. Thranduil sweeps him up in one arm to guide him towards the shore, and together they wade back to where they first fell in, the water having carried them away. Protective instincts take over, and Thranduil hikes Bard up the edge before himself. Only when Bard’s torso is sprawled along the bank does Thranduil lunge out and steady himself against the ground, coughing up water and trying not to splutter too hard. 

One of his guards quickly throws a dry cape over Thranduil’s shoulders. Thranduil places one hand over it, too busy gasping to protest, and then his whole body’s wracked with a sneeze, and he practically doubles over. The entire thing is thoroughly embarrassing. He can’t remember the last time he _sneezed_. Bard seems to have gone into a fit beside him, and Thranduil reaches to pat the poor man’s back, encouraging him to spit it all out. 

It occurs to Thranduil to apologize—it was, after all, his hand that dragged Bard under. But apologies simply don’t come naturally to him, and it wasn’t truly his fault—how was he to know that his beloved elk, after being so sturdy up to now, wouldn’t make the last journey without incident? She’s already righted herself and is shifting nervously on her four legs, but now the elves are surrounding her cautiously, clearly ready to help if she takes another spill. 

Every part of Thranduil is soaked. He isn’t wearing much that he can remove, but he does pull his waterlogged hair over his shoulder and twist it out, straining what he can into the rocks. Beside him, Bard is wringing out his sleeves and the ends of his jacket. It wouldn’t be so bad if the water weren’t _freezing_ , but it is, and it’s seeped down to Thranduil’s skin, making him want to tremble. 

Bard is the first one to push to his feet. Thranduil is still concerned with his clothes, but there’s little he can do, and he accepts Bard’s hand when it’s offered. Pulled to his feet, he straightens out the cloak that’s been draped over him and attempts to gather his dignity, lifting his chin. The bright side of having dragged Bard in is that he doesn’t seem inclined to laugh, and none of Thranduil’s guards would dare. He feels thoroughly sullied, standing in his little puddle, but Thranduil’s grip on his pride remains as firm as ever. He walks away from Bard to circle around his elk, standing on the other side of her from the river. 

Following, Bard says, “We’d better head back to Dale to dry off.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Thranduil curtly replies. He has to sniff to stifle another sneeze.

Having spotted it, a grin twitches on Bard’s face, his expression as though he’s caught one of his children being stubborn. “Come now. We’re only a little ways from my home, and if we don’t treat this, we could both end up with a cold. I won’t have a tottery elk _and_ a drenched king on my conscience.”

Thranduil means to protest, but opening his mouth only puts more force behind his next sneeze. The second he comes out of it, he glares at Bard, daring the man to say anything. Bard is smartly silent, half turned back towards his city. 

Begrudgingly, Thranduil admits, “Very well.” If only because spending time with Bard hasn’t been entirely disagreeable thus far. But first, he gathers the reigns of his elk, and they move the entire party away from the river, assured to never make that mistake again.


End file.
